


Lost and Found

by AlchemyAlice



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Comment Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-04
Updated: 2010-10-04
Packaged: 2017-10-23 02:55:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlchemyAlice/pseuds/AlchemyAlice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>i get lost in this world<br/>i get lost in your eyes<br/>and when the lights go down<br/>that is where i'll be found<br/></i>--Anouk, 'Lost'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost and Found

He seems to fade from his sight, like the West Coast sun swallows him into high contrast and then nothingness, until all that's left is a memory of unbearable blue eyes. Arthur is quick to turn away, and miss that final white-out that would feel like erasure.

Eames nudges his shoulder, all suggestive old-boy. "So. There's a bit of a job waiting for me in Sudan, if you're so inclined. I could use an extra set of hands, and capable ones at that."

Arthur doesn't afford him a glance, but then again, Eames isn't acknowledging his existence either. They're just two men, waiting for taxis at the front of ever-busy LAX.

"If it's easy money, I'm not interested."

"Darling. Would I ever bother with you if it was easy?"

Arthur's snort is humorless. "Give me a few days, and then I'll be there."

"Excellent." Eames slips into a taxi and slams the door behind him. He roars off, impossibly loud and invisible all at once. Arthur is ever only invisible, and sometimes, he hates it.

He uses the days to regain his sense of reality. If Cobb taught him one thing, it's that taking the time to remember what's real is always worth it. Even if reality holds more gray areas to trip over than dreams. Arthur walks around LA, refuses to drive, and if he occasionally steps into odd empty alleys to roll his die amid refuse and cracked asphalt, that's his business. 

The same goes for when he freezes at the sight of dark blond hair and haunted eyes. He tries to ignore it--too many handsome blonds in Hollywood, he'd be paralyzed otherwise--but even when he can ignore the salient features, the little details showing up in strangers, like a thin-lipped, predator's smile, or a sparkle of dark humor, still make his hands shake.

He knows there's a difference between being accustomed to an employer and being  _entrenched_  in him, but he can't for the life of him find the thin black line between them.

He stays in a four-star hotel, as lavish as Saito's money can buy. It feels empty and sullen and impersonal, where they never have before. He keeps opening the door expecting childish laughter, and it's no good at all.

He should buy tickets to Sudan. He should.

Night falls on the fourth day, his die has rolled three at least two dozen times, and somehow he is on the doorstep of a house he recognizes all too well because he still doesn't feel grounded, even when he knows that nothing is a dream.

He's not even aware of knocking because the next thing he knows his senses are narrowing down to a pinpoint, one speck of sight, sound and smell that pierces him like a crossbow bolt through shoddy armor. Cobb is illuminated under the porch light and framed in the doorway, warm glow reflecting against his hair. He's looking at Arthur, stern features curved with bemusement and something else unreadable. And Arthur is looking right back.

Cobb exhales, like he's been holding his breath for hours (days). He says, stepping outside the confines of the door frame, "I was kind of hoping you'd come by." 

And Arthur feels grounded for the first time in weeks, like all of those grainy-gray lithographs of his life are resolving into clear black and white pictures, pictures of clean modern architecture and a man who doesn't look like he belongs with it, but who creates it with a mere breath and a thought. 

"Eames wants me to do a job with him in Sudan," he hears himself saying. As if it matters.

Cobb's true blue eyes cloud over, shut down. "That's...good," he says slowly. "Right?"

Arthur knows he's slipping when he feels the look of complete incredulity slip across his face. "It's not an ideal location," he replies. "There are places I'd rather be."

"Oh?" Cobb says, and his whole face is golden, otherworldly under the lamp. 

Arthur only raises his hand halfway, but it's enough for Cobb to clasp it in his own, large grip, his hand soft with baby powder and dish detergent, to pull him forward. Arthur sways past the invisible border between outside and inside, and can't help but breathe differently in the new space.

"Say goodnight to Philippa before she goes to bed, at least," Cobb says. He's warm, Arthur can feel radiating from him even through his carefully arranged layers of casual cashmere and double-thread cotton. 

"I should call Eames first, tell him to find someone else," he says.

"Eames can wait," Cobb replies.

Arthur nods, and follows the warm hand tugging him inside.


End file.
